Emissions/Kilian DoyleI sit here a changed man. I consider myself extremely fortunate, for I have felt the joy of driving a truly, deeply, unquestionably beautiful car. Until now, I looked upon driving with no great fondness, as something that was purely a means to an end.
No longer.
Some of you may remember a column several months ago in which I recounted the tale of my father's Citroën DS. The response took me, to say the least, by surprise. Not only did fellow DS lovers appear as if by magic, but the lucky man to whom it was eventually sold contacted me.
Delighted though I was to hear his family enjoyed it as much as we did, I was saddened to learn of its ignominious end as something of a flop-house. I take some comfort in the fact he took it in good humour, and at least the drunks who fell into it had the best free hotel in town! Yet another gentleman made me green with envy when he sent me a photo of one of his four DSs. Yes, four.
But best of all, a reader invited me to actually drive his. I arrived at his house bursting with excitement. My eyes lit up when I saw her. She seemed smaller than I remembered my father's - but then I'm a lot bigger now than I was when I was nine. Scarlet and sleek, she was a coquettish Brigitte Bardot to my father's proud Sophia Loren.
The owner - a kind, modest man - waited patiently as I battled with the gearstick, mounted as it was up on the steering column. I could see he had his doubts as I struggled to reach the handbrake, which was down near my right ankle and necessitated my removing my seatbelt to bend below the dashboard to reach it. The DS was hardly designed with ergonomics in mind, but who am I to complain?
Eventually, we were off. I was beaming with happiness, a warm glow enveloping me as we cruised leisurely around the block. She handled like a pleasure boat - painfully slow to get going (0-60 mph in around an hour-and-a-half) but once ticking over, she was an absolute dream. Purring like a panther being stroked by Cleopatra herself, she flowed like molten lava down the road.
It's difficult to express exactly how I felt. To say I wasn't immensely proud of the envious stares we were getting would be disingenuous of me. I desperately wanted people to believe this was my car. I was also gripped by a fear that I would crash this wonderful machine. Apart from how upset my friend would have been, I was painfully aware that would be akin to torching a museum of priceless treasures - a philistine, unforgivable act.
But most of all, I was carried on a wave of nostalgia back to my childhood, when my sister and I bounced for joy in the back of Dad's pneumatically-seated burgundy Beast. The configuration of the dashboard, the shape of the dials, the bizarre rubber knob on the floor that hides the brake pedal and all the other little idiosyncrasies of the DS that made it so precious to me as a child . . . it brought me close to tears. I realise that sounds gushingly mawkish and cloyingly over-sentimental, but it's the honest truth.
Judging by the reaction I got to the previous piece, I know I'm not alone in this emotional response. But I'm not limiting it purely to the effect of the DS per se - anyone with fond reminiscences of a car they loved will doubtless identify with me, be it a bashed-up Toyota Corolla they you went to the beach in as kids or something more glamorous, it matters not.
My experience with the DS hammered home something I've been dithering with for some time. I simply have to own one. I'm hereby throwing pride aside and launching a campaign to find a generous benefactor to help me. All donations most gratefully accepted. C'mon, make an old man very, very happy . . .